


{we were dead before the ship even sank}

by without_wings (liam22)



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-07
Updated: 2009-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:16:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liam22/pseuds/without_wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were some things they couldn't stop.  For random_fic_is_random</p>
            </blockquote>





	{we were dead before the ship even sank}

“You really should learn how to cook, Peter. You don’t want to live on burnt eggs forever, do you?”

“That’s what I got you for? What else would you be doing right now if not taking care of me?” She just laughed.

***

Three weeks ago, Claire had been making cupcakes in his apartment, all the while bitching about school and Angela and sometimes, nothing at all. She moved around his kitchen as if she belonged there; rooting through his cabinets for flour and sugar, changing the radio station, and singing along with an abandon that one only has when they’re in their own space. It’s the most at home he’s ever seen her. All he could do was sit back and laugh with her (all the while, trying to forget how Nathan always tells him that he needs more friends his own age).

Three weeks ago, hidden from prying eyes and disapproving glances, they were still pretending that their feelings didn’t matter. It had been easy to pretend then. In the small space of his kitchen, where it was practically impossible not to bump into each other, she was just a girl and he was just a boy. And the world could fend for itself for a little while longer.

Three weeks ago, he could ignore the impulse to kiss her when she licked errant specks of frosting off her fingers. She twirled around with a great big smile, her hair catching in the sun. Her feet are bare and her tiny pink toenails really shouldn’t be as enticing as they are. But he remembers the last time she painted them: the feel of her feet propped up his thigh and how he could still smell the citrus of her perfume over the strong stench of the polish. He can barely remember the details of the movie they were watching, but the image of her laughing at it is guiltily burned into his brain. She's laughing like that again and he looks away quickly. If he was any less honorable, he would have taken her there against the counter tops, right between the container of sprinkles and the empty egg carton. But there is no way he is crossing that line yet.

Three weeks ago, everything had been ok.

***

“Does it scare you?”

“What?”

“Forever. Does the idea of living forever scare you?”

“It won’t be that bad. The movie only made it seem that way to get more people to watch it.” We’ll always have each other. I’m not leaving you.

“Can you pick a comedy next week?”

“Well just because you asked, I’ll make sure to keep our entertainment existentialist-question free.”

***

Two weeks ago, he was supposed to take her to the movies. They always went to the same little theater on the other side of town; the one with the usher that always referrers to Claire as his girl (neither bother to correct her). They were going to go see the latest action thriller, as it was his turn to pick the movie. And although they were going as uncle and niece, the thought of tangling fingers with her in a shared bucket of popcorn gave him an illicit sort of thrill.

But two weeks ago, he was late to pick her up. He didn’t answer his cell phone or the phone at his apartment. The minutes ticked by and the worry ate at her. This wasn’t like him at all.

She hails the longest taxi ride of her life when she can’t reach Nathan either (but that never struck her as unusual). She can barely keep still as all the awful possibilities run through her head. She thrusts a fifty at the driver and is bounding up the stairs to Peter’s apartment before he can even think of giving her change. By the time she reaches his door, she’s shaking so bad that it takes her three tries to get her key to open the lock.

The stench of paint hits her before she even opens the door. Every flat surface in his apartment is covered in paintings of thousands in captivity, war-torn streets, and headless bodies. Peter was curled up in a ball in the montage’s only void. Interspersed with visions of an upcoming apocalypse, sandwiched right between a crying mother and child behind bars and a burning Statue of Liberty, is a picture of them. She can’t take her eyes off it. He’s cradling her headless body to his chest and looking up heartbroken at some figure in the shadows.

***

“Peter, wake up. Are you ok?”

“Claire,” he gasps and wraps her up in an awkward hug.

***

Two hours of pacing later, they had a game plan. Looking back on it now, the plan wasn’t a very good one.

She clutched his hand, stared up at him with bright eyes, and promised that she wasn’t going to let him do this alone. Not this time.

He should have been stronger. He should have told her no. He should have done more to keep her safe than bundling up in a rented black Ford and taking her with him on what promised to be a fool’s errand.

But he couldn’t get that image of her out of his head.

She wasn’t dying on his watch.

***

“Would you settle on a radio station?”

“I’m trying to find something that isn’t so…country.”

“What’s wrong with country?”

“Nothing, but if I hear any more songs about rain I’m going to throw this radio out the window.”

***

Between here and there, lay a dozen headless bodies. Those the company hadn’t gotten to first, Sylar made sure to take care of for them.

***

“They’ve got pie.”

“I don’t want pie.”

“You love pie. Or how about ice cream? We passed a gas station a couple miles back. I’m sure we can find you some Half Baked if you want.”

“Peter, we shouldn’t be wasting our money.”

“But it’s your birthday…”

“And I’ll have plenty more. Don’t worry about it.”

She doesn’t. And from then on, even the thought of ice cream makes him sick to his stomach.

***

He buried his face in her mass of curls, trying to squeeze more comfort out of the hug he was fighting to keep platonic. The struggle to pull her a little closer, to just give in, was a near constant these days. She was practically melting into him, practically begging for him to give in as well. She smelled like…well whatever it was, it was his new favorite scent…and nothing of the death that they just witnessed.

He knew, even before they entered the apartment, he knew.

The door was ajar and the scent of death was becoming too familiar for comfort. The psychic they were looking for was lying headless on the floor, in a Santa suit. The blood pool hadn’t even started to dry around the edges. They had been close, and they still couldn’t save the man from his grotesque fate. Peter didn’t have to fight back the bile this time, and that worried him more than anything.

He had moved in front of Claire, trying to keep the image from her (why hadn’t he fought harder to get her to wait at the motel), but blood was everywhere, splattered on a scene that should have been a merry winter wonderland. The sickening signs of struggle dotted the floor in shattered furniture and broken glass, ornaments probably. The tree lay sideway, tipped like he felt the world was, and the suit’s matching hat was pinned to the wall with a kitchen knife.

Sylar was just taunting them now.

He promised to protect her and with every name they’ve cross off the list, he can’t help the guilty feeling of defeat. He doesn't know what was worse, the mind-numbing fear that they wouldn't be able to stop this, or the almost numb acceptance that took over when he saw the body (no, not a body. He had a name. James.) What the hell was happening to him? Death wasn't supposed to get any easier.

He pulled Claire a little closer, pressing a kiss to her hair (if they were being knocked off one by one, what did it really matter anymore). He tried to remember her sad little smile (she never smiled anymore) and how he promised it would all get better. He didn't mean it as a lie.

***

“Claire…”

“I swear, if you apologize for that I’m going to kick you.”

“No, I mean… well….I’m not sorry.

“Good, neither am I.”

“It’s just…I love you. You know that, right.”

“Yeah, I do.”

***

Four months on the road. Four months of shared hotel rooms and greasy spoon dinners. Four months of guilt and tears and kisses.

He still has no idea what he is going to tell Nathan. And even though they haven’t talked about it, there is no way he can bring himself to go back to the time when he couldn’t bring himself to hold her hand.

It should worry him how much he needs her. And it probably would if he didn’t know she felt the same way.

***

Over a crackling radio, they learn of the bombings. New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston, and Washington DC, all destroyed. They listen for a few more minutes in silence.

“Keep driving,” is the only thing he says.

***

“Is that it? Was that all we could do?”

“Claire…”

“No. There must be something else.”

“Maybe we weren’t meant to save the world this time.”

“Don’t say that, Peter. There has to be something.”

***

They arrive home late at night to a door forced open and the cloying stench of death.

He does the only thing he can think of.

He takes her hand and runs.


End file.
